Delilah Amelia
by EverythingIsDifferent
Summary: The backstory of Delly Cartwright, as told from her perspective in Mockingjay.
1. Chapter 1

**HEY:) Told you I'd post something Delly, didn't I. Anywho, here it is. I originally started writing it and just kind of went for it, thinking it would be a short, normal one shot. But it kind of got long and I was like, OH, so I had to cut some of the things I wrote.**

**Since I wrote Run For Me, and I've been brainstorming for my next venture into Prim's POV, I couldn't get Delly out of my mind. In my head, this is her world and her story, and I felt like she deserved to have one. So yes, I hope you enjoy my version of Delly Cartwright, and look out for the next Prim POV (as yet untitled) coming out soon!**

**Thanks guys! Let me know how you like it.**

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My name is Delilah Amelia Cartwright -though everyone calls me Delly- and I am 18 years old.

My parent's names are Jonathan Stuart Cartwright, and Ruth Johanna Mayfair-Cartwright.

They both lay in the charred ruins of District 12.

I was born a miracle child to older parents, the first one to survive and be granted life in this world. They called me their dream-come-true, and doted upon me more than I could ask for. I was taught how to play piano and how to write, how to sew and how to sing. I was brought up to be a woman of class, of society. To be married and live among the few elite of District 12.

Not that any of it matters now.

I now live in District 13, and so does my little brother. We are refugees. We escaped the bombing of District 12, and live in fear of the Capitol. We lost everything we had and everything we knew, but I don't feel sorry for myself.

I spend my nights now in a room with 12 other girls who face similar fates; many of whom who don't have anyone left anymore. I am more blessed than most others here; I still have family left, no matter how small or broken it may be.

When the first bomb dropped, I was lying in bed trying to decide what I would wear the next day for school. It all seems so incredibly childish and foolish now that I think about it but, well, appearance was once my everything.

I was never the prettiest girl at school -hundreds of others shared the same blonde hair and blue eyes as myself- but my parents had the money to buy me pretty dresses and other beautiful clothes, and so I took advantage of that. I was always a little bit larger than everyone else, but of course, no one can call you fat while you're wearing a nicer dress than they are. So that was my protection. It made sense too, as my parents ran the shoe shop in town, so clothing and fashion felt natural to me. It was a passion that no one else in District 12 shared.

It was less greed than survival -it was something that I felt I had to do- although that didn't stop me from reveling in the beautiful soft fabrics and colours of my clothing. I do realize now just how spoiled I was; always more than enough to eat, or at least enough to go to sleep with a full stomach every night. I had tender meat from the butcher, fresh bread from the baker and new clothes from the seamstress. Life was good, and I took it all for granted.

It was not that I'd been ignorant of the poverty; in District 12 it is a way of life for more than half of the citizens. It was just that I'd never really experienced it, or made a point of thinking about it, or looked at it, or tried to do something about it.

I left that to my best friend, Peeta Mellark.

I may have been nice, but his genuine consideration, cares, and worry for the residents of the Seam flew right over my head. Of course, I found out that they were centered around one person in general…

But that's another story.

On the night of the bombing I was lying in bed half-asleep, dreaming of clothing- as I often did- my pretty green skirt; my white shirt with the pearly buttons; my shiny black shoes, made specially by my father for me, that I took care to scrub shiny and clean every night.

And then I heard it.

It was quiet, a low hum at first, but as the hovercrafts grew closer my entire house began to shake and was vibrating from the sound. I was petrified; lying in my bed scared still and alone while the screams and shouts began to sound from outside my window.

I remember slinking out of bed in my pajamas, soft white things thin and light as air, and creeping up to my window to get a look. And just as I had pulled the curtain back, the first bomb fell.

It was somewhere over the Seam, near the edge of the District somewhere I'd never been, but I could still feel the shock running through me.

I watched, terrified as the fire sprouted from amongst the shacks and broken down houses, and spread faster than anything I'd ever seen.

A bright red blaze that seemed to consume all it touched, and as it spread the cries grew louder and louder, until they were almost deafening, even through the window.

I'd just reached up and was rubbing at my eyes in disbelief as the second bomb dropped.

Right in the Town Square.

The resulting blast shook my entire house to bits, the force exploding through the window, sending glass shards flying throughout my room.

Everything went silent, and all I could hear was a distinct, high whistle in my ears as I was blown backwards onto my bed.

I landed, half hanging off of my mattress, as the silence continued and I drew my hands from my eyes and saw the blood covering my arms.

The glass had only scratched the surface of my skin, but still, the amount of red streaming from the cuts was more than I'd ever seen before.

I wanted to scream, choke, cry out, but even when I did, I couldn't hear myself. My ears were filled with the overwhelming silence, and I felt numb.

I was so afraid.

All I knew was that I had to get out.

At that moment, my mother came bursting into my room with my little brother in tow and grabbed me, dragging my stiff self out.

My mother was not an ugly woman by any means. She was plump and some would say large, but I thought she was the most beautiful woman in town. I loved the way her round cheeks always shone a lovely red, making her look permanently flustered. I loved how we shared the same blue eyes, ones that twinkled in the sunlight and were the colour of a bright summer sky. I loved her large, soft hands that rubbed my back when I felt sick, and the way her arms wrapped around me when I felt sad.

At that moment, those hands were my salvation.

She had grabbed me and screamed over and over, slowly yanking me out of my bedroom, until my ears returned to normalcy and I understood her words.

"_Delly! Come on Delly! We have to go! We have to go!"_

I remember scrambling to put my boots on and throw on a sweater before running out of my house with my mother and father, my mother desperately clutching my hand and holding my little brother Colin tight to her chest as we raced out into the open.

Right towards the Town Square.

It's a sight I will never forget.

The town burned before me, a blazing testament to the power of the Capitol. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run in fear. But at the same time I didn't want to leave my home. I wanted to close my eyes and open them and have this all be a horrible nightmare; but the heat radiating from the fires scorched my skin, assuring me that it was all too real.

I heard my mother shriek as I watched my father leave us and run off towards the Bakery; no doubt to save Peeta's family, our friends the Mellarks'. The building was engulfed in flames, burning bright before us and as soon as I saw my father break through the door I knew he would never come out.

I knew we had to run.

And so I grabbed my mother and brother and spun desperately around, searching for an answer, not knowing where to go or what to do.

And that's when Madge Undersee approached us.

Madge was a girl in my year at school, the Mayor's daughter. She was someone whom I had known in and out of school; someone I'd grown up with; a friend. Her blonde ponytail bobbed behind her as she ran towards us with soot and sweat streaking her face. Her blue eyes locked on mine and she urged me to run, pointing me in the direction of a dirt road that I knew led to the Seam, and eventually the fence.

She said it was the only way to get out.

And so I said one last goodbye to Madge, holding her in my arms for one final hug, and ran for it.

I dragged my mother and brother down the beaten dirt path, racing past the throngs of people –from the Seam and the Town- to get to the fence. All of us screaming and crying as we ran, all of us desperate to escape, all of us determined to try and make it out alive.

As I ran, I heard the bombs exploding behind me, destroying more and more of my home, but I dared not look back. I knew if I did, I'd never be able to tear my eyes off of it.

I knew that there was only one way left to go, and that was forward.

I knew that if I turned around, I'd never make it out alive.

I have never felt relief like I did when I saw the fence looming in front of us, sharp wire and wood tangled and torn, collapsed.

Looking at it, broken and ripped in two, it was hard to believe it was the only thing that had held us in all this time. The only thing keeping us here, confined like caged animals.

_And now they burn us in our cage, with no way to get out._

I felt sick to my stomach.

We finally made it out into the dark woods, a massive horde of citizens burnt and bleeding, pushing their way through the fence into the dense green forest. And once out, I let out a sigh of relief, dropping my mother's hand to brush hair out of my face and wipe the soot from my cheeks.

But my relief was short-lived.

We weren't safe yet.

A hovercraft whipped over and we all stood, paralyzed in fear, as it flew low above us and dropped another bomb in the forest.

I was thrown back; we all were.

The force of the explosion threw me back into a tree, and I hit it so hard I thought I might black out.

The air was filled with moans and cries, and I forced myself to stand, all the while feeling as though I would faint. Praying that I would wake up, that this was all a dream. I stepped over the bodies lying on the ground, some pleading for me to help them, others begging for me to end their lives, and make it quick. The tears and smoke stung my eyes as I searched desperately, crying out for my brother, and for my mother.

I found her.

She was crushed beneath a tree, felled by the explosion, and as soon as I recognized her face, now bloody and burnt, I couldn't help it; I threw up. Her face now something I dream of every night, and I wake up shaking and crying, the image of my dead mother burnt into my eyes.

After that, I searched the clearing for hours looking for my brother. The sun rose and set once more, but I couldn't find Colin in the wreckage. And so I convinced myself that he survived, and I pushed on by myself. I told myself that I'd find him in the woods; that he was safe and that we'd be together again; that I wasn't abandoning him.

I escaped to the woods, surviving for days on pure luck and a sparse knowledge of berries and plants.

A man named Skylar -an old miner from the Seam- found me collapsed under a tree; scared, tired, starving and alone. I'd been ready to die, to give in to the elements, and the overwhelming pain in my gut. But Skylar forced me to keep moving. He, and a group of 10 others, was traveling as far out as they could into the forest. They thought they might find help, or at least others.

Their hope was contagious, and –surprisingly- successful.

About five days from the bombing, we did find others.

We found the Hawthornes, and the Everdeens.

And it wasn't long after that, that we were found ourselves, and taken to District 13.

Which is where I sit now, staring eye to eye with Haymitch Abernathy, the 'District Drunk' and former victor of The Hunger Games.

The small room feels cold and unwelcoming, the clean-whitewashed walls closing in on me, glaring at me in the harsh artificial light.

I have yet to get used to life underground, but it's better than nothing.

In District 13, I found my brother, and Colin and I were reunited, thankfully. But they don't let me live with him. Instead I'm sharing a room with other parentless girls; girls who are unclaimed and uncared for, the youngest of them only four and the oldest 19.

Colin shares a room with boys of a similar fate, and each day I have to hold him and remind him I'm there. Though he's only 10 years old, and though he managed to survive the woods alone for a few days, he's still a scared little boy when he falls into my arms.

I have to stay strong for the both of us, and that's why I'm here in this small room, in a staring match with Abernathy.

They asked the survivors of District 12, all 800 of us -800 of thousands that didn't make it out- for those who knew Peeta Mellark.

For those who shared memories.

They didn't tell us why though.

I immediately volunteered; I was desperate to see my best friend again, so excited to see him alive and hear his voice that I didn't think twice of what could be waiting for me.

Peeta and I grew up together, drawing paintings on the sidewalk, rolling and playing in the meadow, picking dandelions and playing in the creek. And as we grew, so did my feelings for him.

When we were young, our mother's dreamed that one day we would get married. And as I got older, I found myself dreaming of that same thing; shamefully at first, although after a while I realized that my feelings for Peeta were more than just a school girl crush, but I could never say anything out of fear. We got closer and closer as we got older, trading in dandelions for books and chores, spending every moment together and using every spare second to relieve each other of our ultimate boredom; and then he was reaped. My heart broke. I'd never cared for someone so much, and I'd never really had to say goodbye.

I will never forget that day in the Justice Building, waiting outside in the hallway, thinking up words to say that could possibly convey what I was feeling. I was used to being comforted by Peeta, telling him my fears and having him help me solve my problems. I was unprepared to comfort him. I didn't know what I should do or how he was going to be acting, but I did know one thing; I had to tell him how I felt.

When I entered that room, his eyes were red, his face wet with tears, and I held him close to me as we both sobbed onto each other's shoulders. But then he grew serious and stopped crying. He held me at arm's length and told me goodbye; told me that he wasn't coming home and that he'd miss me very much.

I asked him why.

I simply stood there, shocked as he continued to speak, telling me that he had something bigger to do in the arena, that he had someone to protect. I knew it had to be Katniss and he admitted to it, but he refused to explain. Instead, he just told me that he'd been there for her before and that he wouldn't be able to stand aside and watch her die in the arena. He told me that he would do anything and everything he could to protect her.

I couldn't think of a word to say, so I simply hugged him again, and held him tight until the peacekeepers ripped me away.

I watched him on television as he wooed the Capitol audience, proclaiming his love for Katniss. I never doubted his motives for a second. I watched him fight along with the careers, secretly holding some poor tribute girl's hand as she took her last breath. I watched, terrified, as he took on Cato and suffered the near-fatal leg injury that almost stole him from me, stood proud as he used his talent to camouflage himself. I watched the games proud, as he refused to play by their rules, and stayed himself the entire time; the Peeta I knew and loved. I watched him as he won the games with the berries, and cried tears of joy when he returned home. I didn't care that he was one half of the star-crossed lovers of District 12; I just cared that he was alive.

And now here I sit, being interviewed- more like interrogated really- by Haymitch Abernathy himself.

His dark eyes are rimmed with red and they stare at me intently, intimidating. His hair is greasy and streaked across his forehead with sweat, and he licks his lips loudly before he speaks.

All in all he's rather disgusting.

"So Miss…. Cartwright-" he begins.

"It's Delly."

"… Delly." He repeats, amused. "How do you know Peeta?"

"Well, we grew up together."

"You were friends?"

"Yes."

"Even while he was in the arena?"

"Yes, well. For the first games at least. I uh, I didn't really speak to him much when he came back…"

"He was rather busy when he returned wasn't he."

Tears prick the back of my eyes but I force a smile, "Yes. Unfortunately he was."

"Yeah well, that's kind of my fault in a way. But nonetheless, would he recognize you today?"

"I certainly hope so!" I blush deep red. "I mean, he was my best friend. _Is_ still my best friend. I, I hope he hasn't forgotten me."

Haymitch's expression softens, "I hope so too."

I stare down at my feet nervously. Seeing Haymitch Abernathy look that way is unnerving, he almost seemed to be capable of emotions.

Weird.

"So, Delly…" He starts back up again, taking a quick swig of his flask. "I don't doubt your relationship with Peeta. But tell me, do you know Katniss at all?"

"Well, we were in the same grade together, all three of us."

"Were you friends?"

"Oh no."

"You didn't speak to Peeta about her?"

"Not that I can recall."

Haymitch pauses for a moment and seems to consider this. "Well," he announces, "I'm done."

He pushes himself out of his chair and brushes past me as he walks briskly towards the door.

"Wait!" I call, spinning around on the cushion. "Don't you want to ask me anything more?"

"Nope." Haymitch turns on his heels and walks back over to me, leaning his elbows on the arm of my chair. His breath smells of liquor and he stares intently into my eyes as he speaks, "I've already chosen you sweetheart."

I hold his gaze and lower my voice, "For what?"

I sit in a waiting room of the hospital here in District 13, waiting patiently in a hard wooden chair. I'm chatting with Plutarch Heavensbee, one of the leaders of the rebellion.

He's actually very nice, and I've been complimenting him on his pocket watch, a lovely golden thing. We've gone on to have quite the conversation about clothing and fashion, something I've been deprived of being here in the underground.

It's strange waking up each day and putting on the exact same grey shirt, pants, shoes; grey everything. The fabric feels slightly itchy on my skin, and though I'd lost weight in the woods, it isn't exactly the most flattering. The conversation with Plutarch brightens my day a little bit, as we discuss his clothes- considerably nicer than mine- and mock the fashion in the underground.

It's a relief to hear someone else complain as well.

I was afraid I was the only one who could think of things like that at a time like this.

Haymitch walks in, bringing Katniss Everdeen with him.

Seeing her alive makes me happy, as although she's the object of Peeta's affections –and I, along with the rest of District 12, know that she broke his poor heart- I now know there's someone else here who cares for Peeta almost as much as I do.

That much was clear when he hit the force field and Katniss broke down.

I give her my brightest smile, and she returns it with her usual vacant expression. Her eyes are sunken and hollow, the bags under them alarming. Her hair is stringy, but nonetheless pulled back into her famous braid. She's lost weight and her cheekbones and collarbone are prominent, her arms skinny. She looks almost delicate, frail; a ghost of the victor of the 74th Hunger Games.

"How are you doing?" she asks as she approaches me and I rise from my seat.

"Oh, it's been a lot of changes all at once," for a moment my mind flashes back to my parents and home in District 12, and I have trouble hiding the tears that well up in my eyes, "But everyone's really nice here in Thirteen," I manage. "Don't you think?"

I give her another smile and she tries to smile back.

There's a faint tug at the corners of her mouth, but not a huge movement.

"They've made an effort to make us feel welcome," she replies coolly. "Are you the one they've picked to see Peeta?"

As she says his name her voice wavers, and I realize just how scared she is for him.

"I guess so." I shrug. "Poor Peeta. Poor you. I'll never understand the Capitol," I say.

And I mean it.

Katniss voice is soft s she replies, "Better not to maybe."

Plutarch jumps up from his chair, "Delly's known Peeta for a long time." He pipes up cheerfully.

"Oh yes!" I smile, thinking back to my memories, "We played together from when we were little. I used to tell people he was my brother."

"What do you think?" Haymitch turns to Katniss nervously," Anything that might trigger memories of you?"

"We were all in the same class. But we never overlapped much," she replies.

I can't help but pipe in at this point, "Katniss was always so amazing," I gush. "I never dreamed she would notice me. The way she could hunt and go into the Hob and everything. Everyone admired her so."

And I mean it.

Although, I suppose, I don't realize how childish I sound until Haymitch and Katniss stare at me, questioning. I blush a deep red and stare down at my plain, grey shoes, embarrassed.

"Delly always thinks the best of everyone," Katniss explains to Haymitch. "I don't think Peeta could have bad memories associated with her," she pauses. "Wait. In the Capitol. When I lied about recognizing the Avox girl. Peeta covered for me and said she looked like Delly."

My ears perk up at this; _Peeta mentioned me in the Capitol_?

I feel my heart swell. I thought he'd forgotten me, but knowing that I was the first name that came to his mind gives me a sort of comfort, even if it was just in passing to help Katniss.

"I remember," Haymitch replies. "But I don't know. It wasn't true. Delly wasn't actually there. I don't think it can compete with years of childhood memories."

"Especially with such a pleasant companion as Delly," adds in Plutarch generously. "Let's give it a shot."

I blush red at his compliment, but I feel the fear growing in my chest as Plutarch, Haymitch and Katniss leave and go to what they call the 'observation room', where they can watch over what happens.

A nurse comes over to me, a kind looking older woman, with sparkling green eyes and wrinkles lining her face.

"Are you ready honey?" she asks softly.

I nod, shaking slightly.

She gives me a warm smile and leads me to the door, opening it quietly.

And there he is.

My best friend.

Peeta lies on the bed in the center of the room, his arms strapped down tight. He's not fighting against his restraints, although he constantly twitches and fidgets and glances around nervously. He looks rational and sane enough to me, even though I was told otherwise.

I shake with nerves as I close in on the bed, but as I get closer and closer I recognize the Peeta I once knew, and I can't help but smile. His eyes are still the same bright, clear blue, and he still has the same nervous tendency of clenching and unclenching his jaw rhythmically. I almost laugh out of relief.

"Peeta?" I say softly. "It's Delly. From home."

I add this is for good measure, hoping that he'd know it; but after what he's been through I don't want to jump to any conclusions.

"Delly?" he asks softly, "Delly. It's you."

I feel my heart burst as I come in close to the side of his bed, resting my hand on the railing close beside my friend, staring down at his face.

"Yes!" I answer, completely relieved. "How do you feel?"

"Awful." Peeta groans slightly and winces as he shifts in his bed. "Where are we? What's happened?"

I pause for a moment, remembering Plutarch's words.

"_Make sure to avoid talking about Katniss. That will come in time. And avoid the Capitol too. Just remind him of home, see how much he remembers about you, and about District 12. Tell him where he is and just… go slow, yes?"_

"Well," I pause, thinking of what to say. "We're in District 13. We live here now."

"That's what most people have been saying. But it makes no sense. Why aren't we home?" Peeta asks sincerely.

I bite my lip, fighting to hold back the tears as Peeta's words conjure images in my mind: _home. Why aren't we home?_

"There was" I take a deep breath to stop myself from crying, "an accident. I miss home badly, too. I was only just thinking about those chalk drawings we used to do on the paving stones. Yours were so wonderful. Remember when you made each one a different animal?"

Peeta nods, "Yeah. Pigs and cats and things. You said… about an accident?"

I take a moment and choose my words carefully and I feel the beads of sweat form on my skin.

"It was bad. No one… could stay." I stammer.

I want to say more. I want to tell him. He deserves to know.

But I know I can't.

"But I know you're going to like it here Peeta," I continue, forcing my brightest smile even as the tears form in my eyes. "The people have been really nice to us. There's always food and clean clothes, and school's much more interesting-"

"Why hasn't my family come to see me?" Peeta cuts me off.

I can feel a lump in my throat, "They can't." I fight the tears desperately, but I'm unable to get the image of Peeta's house burning in the flames out of my head. "A lot of people didn't get out of twelve," and now an image of my parents fills my thoughts. "So we'll need to make a new life here. I'm sure they could use a good baker." I sniffle, conjuring up another bright, forced smile, "Do you remember when your father used to let us make dough girls and boys?"

"There was a fire," Peeta says abruptly.

I close my eyes and my grip tightens on the side of his bed. "Yes," I whisper.

"Twelve burned down, didn't it? Because of her," Peeta's jaw clenches tight as he raises his voice. "Because of Katniss!"

Peeta fights against his restraints, desperately pulling against them, shaking the bed.

I jump back, startled, I've never seen him like this before.

"Oh, no, Peeta. It wasn't her fault."

"Did she tell you that?" he hisses at me.

He's never spoken to me like that before.

My face collapses and my gut wrenches as I hear the door open behind me and I back towards it, terrified.

But I know I can fix this.

"She didn't have to. I was-"

"Because she's lying!" he interrupts me, screaming. "She's a liar! You can't believe anything she says! She's some kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!"

My voice trembles as I speak up, desperately trying to appease him, "No, Peeta. She's not a-"

"Don't trust her Delly." He says frantically, interrupting me once more. "I did, and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends. My family. Don't ever go near her! She's a mutt!"

The tears come streaming out of my eyes now, and I choke on my tears as I lose my control and break down.

A hand reaches from the doorway behind and tears me from the room.

The kind old nurse wraps her arms around me as I sob into her shoulder.

"Shhh, darling. Shhh, it's all right. It'll all be all right." She soothes, stroking my hair as I bury my face deeper into her shirt.

_No it won't._

_He's lost._

_My best friend is gone._

_And I don't think he'll ever come back._


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! So it's been a while for sure, and I PROMISE I've been working on Prim's POV of Mockingjay (among many other things) but I was having a lot of trouble getting back into that Prim headspace, and I realized, that was cause I hadn't quite gotten Delly out of my head yet. SO, without further ado, here is the continuation of my Delly piece. I think I might have a couple more entries into this one, following Delly's mentions/appearances in Mockingjay, and maybe even an epilogue at the end to see where she ends up. I hope you like it, and any feedback, commentary and suggestions are welcome, as always.**

**Thanks guys!**

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It's a cold morning, as most mornings are underground, and I force myself to stand in the looming darkness and pull on my standard-issue grey pants.

It's strange to never see the sun rise. I can't tell whether it's dark or light outside in the real world.

_Stop it Delly. This is your real world now._

_No going back._

I shake my head to clear the early morning fogginess, and trade my soft grey sleep shirt for one with long-sleeves for the chill that comes with living beneath the earth. It's all grey. Grey. Grey. Grey.

I swear if someone looked inside me, I'd be grey by now.

But I've become accustomed to it. All of it.

The pale, whitewashed walls, all the antibacterial surfaces. The incredibly clean-ness of it, the terrifying alien quality that it has. I still don't like the blaring white everywhere, the blank, pale walls that stare at me, the fluorescent lights that burn my eyes when they turn on every morning on cue. I still don't like any of it, but I'm used to it.

It's been a number of weeks since we first came here to the underground, and the searing pain and guilt in my chest has become nothing more than a permanent dull ache. A sullen reminder of all I've left behind.

But at least it's not so painful now.

I slip on my shoes, half-sleepwalking down the hallways I know so well now, and slide silently into the elevator along with a number of other refugees from 12.

_Refugees._

I hate that word, but it's the only one that seems to fit our situation.

It suggests that we were helpless, that we need someone else to ensure our survival; that we needed to be rescued. It implies that we are hopeless on our own. Suggests that we are fortunate to be alive.

I agree with the last part, but nothing else.

We are not so hopeless. The strength I've seen from my fellow citizens in the last few weeks gives me greater hope than any single act of kindness from 13. We're not quite there yet, but we're fighting, and we're surviving, and it will get better.

I know it will.

It has to.

But I'm in a fortunate situation.

I have a job to do, and a job that has taken up most of my time and all of my thoughts over the past few weeks, stopping me from mourning the destruction of 12, keeping me occupied so I can't remember all that I've lost.

Instead of thinking, I've been with Peeta.

I've spent weeks coaxing him back from his terrified states, spent hours calming him down from his sudden fits of anger. It's taken a while, but I can see him getting better, see the calm blue returning to his eyes, the soft downward tilt of those baby blues that comforted me all throughout my childhood. He's coming back to me.

I can feel it.

He has to be.

He's stopped throwing things, stopped ripping out of his straps and pulling so hard they tear away at his skin, leaving horrible marks and bruises all over his arms and chest. He's gained weight so his ribs aren't so visible, and his eyes don't look so hollow anymore. All improvements that remind me of my old friend.

But I'm still afraid.

I can't help it.

We spend our time in his private room, painted a soft, calming blue, in the hospital ward. It's hidden from view, tucked in away from everyone else. It's quiet, and that's good.

I don't think he could handle the hustle and bustle of say, the cafeteria.

Not yet at least.

Normally, we just sit and talk, or sit in silence. It's comforting to sit with him, even if no words are spoken. It was just easier to ignore everything he's been through at first.

So that's how it was the first few weeks.

Silence.

And then, slowly, he began to speak.

I spoke first, asked him to recall memories of home and of growing up. Memories that used to bring a smile to my face, but now just emphasize the dull, throbbing pain in my heart. He joined in after a few days, and we'd talk together like we did when we were kids, about anything and everything, and yet nothing at all.

And then Peeta began to speak of his own accord.

He spoke to me about the Capitol, about it's elegance and it's overwhelming fashions, which he thought I'd enjoy.

He spoke to me about Portia, his stylist, who he had confided in. Supposedly she reminded him of me; something about our taste in shoes. That made me blush.

He spoke to me about baking, slowly walking me through the motions of baking the perfect loaf of bread, icing a cake; everything he used to do back home.

He spoke to me of painting, of how he blends the colours just so, to make it look real, authentic, natural.

And finally, after a while, Peeta spoke to me of the arena for the 75th Games.

I wanted to cry the whole time, but I wouldn't let him see my tears.

Instead I held his hand tight as he told me of Rue, of Thresh, of Cato. But most of all, he spoke to me of the girl from District 5; the one he called Foxface. His only kill.

He went on about her for what seemed like hours, lamenting and guilt-ridden, and I sat there and listened, and for those precious moments, I felt like I was back with my friend.

Like I was back with the boy who couldn't hurt a fly; who wouldn't even if the situation called for it. Back with the boy who wouldn't let the Hunger Games change him, accepting his own inevitable death rather than killing innocent others. The boy who felt responsible for another's plight, even if they'd never met. He was back: my perfect, selfless, innocent Peeta.

All when he spoke of Foxface.

_I sat on the side of his bed, holding his hand as he clutched my palm gently, but firmly. The tears rolled down his face silently as he spoke in a low, solemn tone._

"_She didn't have to die," he whispered._

"_Peeta, she was in The Hunger Games. So were you. She had to…"_

"_But not like that," his chest rose and fell quickly and I could see his eyes harden, "Not because of my own stupidity."_

'_Peeta," I whisper, holding his own large hand in mine, "It wasn't your fault."_

"_Yes it was."_

"_No. It was the Capitol."_

"_But I killed her."_

"_The berries killed her Peeta."_

"_The berries that I picked."_

_I pause, "The berries that the Capitol placed in the arena-"_

"_But I picked them."_

_Exasperated, I drop his hand and stand, turning away from the bed. "Don't you see Peeta? It all goes back to them. This is their fault. Not yours. You want to blame yourself because it feels right, but you don't have to. That girl had a target on her back from the moment she walked into the arena, and the Capitol was the one that send the final bullet."_

_We stay there, silent for a moment as Peeta considers this, and when I turn back to him, his eyes and expression are soft again, brimming with tears, and he looks at me with such tenderness that I have to tell myself not to lean over and hug him right there._

"_I missed you Delly." He whispers._

I spent the rest of that day lying on the cot with Peeta, both of us attempting to count the number of tiles on the ceiling.

A few days after that, I convinced the nurses to allow him to paint.

In 13, they're very strict on their supplies, and so I fought long and hard alongside Haymitch and Plutarch to convince President Coin to let him have them.

It was the first time I'd met her.

She made me feel cold, tired and uncomfortable.

She was so straight cut and sharp, from her perfectly even and trimmed hair down to her creased jacket and pants.

She terrified me.

But I got my way eventually, with a rambling Haymitch on my side.

Peeta was first allowed to sketch for a day or two, and then to draw with coloured pencils, and finally, they gave him paints.

His eyes lit up when they wheeled the canvas and easel into the room.

I'd never felt more fulfilled.

And so, over the next few days, I sat beside Peeta and I watched him paint.

It was as though he was in a trance.

His fingers moved the brush smoothly along the canvas, and bits of colour covered the canvas, slowly mixing together and forming an image.

It was District 12.

It was the bakery.

It was his home.

I had to bite the tears back as he let the paintbrush rest at the bottom of the easel, and sat back to stare at his work.

He'd painted a landscape; a view encompassed the Mellark Bakery and the town. In the picture, it was raining, but the light coming out from the windows of the bakery was bright and warm, welcoming. I could almost feel the heat emanating from the building. The bright yellow and orange glow was in stark contrast to the cool blues and greys that covered the rest of the rainy image, but I couldn't take my eyes off the glowing windows.

It was beautiful.

It was so lifelike, I felt as though I was there. I could smell the sickeningly sweet sugar from the icing and the fresh baked bread; feel the heat of the ovens as we played indoors on a cold rainy day. I could hear his father's kind voice giving helpful instructions as he taught us how to make muffins and tarts, cheese buns and baguettes.

The emotion flooded through me, and without thinking, I reached over and grabbed Peeta's hand.

He interlaced his fingers with mine, and held tight as we both stared into the painting of our home.

"I miss it Delly," he said softly. "I miss it a lot."

"Me too."

"And it…" he seems to choke on his words, "It's gone."

"Yes."

"And my parents? And my brothers? And your parents?"

I take a deep breath, and attempt to sound strong, but my voice wavers and sounds feeble, weak. "All gone Peeta."

"But not because of her," he questions, his voice skeptical.

"No. Not because of her Peeta. They're gone because of _them_. Because of President Snow."

He seems to roll the words around in his mouth, feeling their taste on his tongue; "Because of _them_. It's all because of _Snow_."

"That's right," I lift my head from his shoulder and stare into his eyes. "It's not Katniss' fault."

"Katniss…" his eyes harden at the name, and I feel his hand squeeze tight against mine for a brief moment, but then he gains control and steadies his gaze upon mine. "And Katniss," the same violent flash again, his voice cynical, "is not a mutt."

"No Peeta, Katniss is not a mutt."

"She's not a mutt," he says, though it's clear he's not convinced.

We do this daily, this continual back and forth.

Peeta seems to think that the more he says it, the more he'll believe it, or at least convince us that he believes it so we'll let him out. I sure hope he's right. And so each day I watch the anger flash up in his eyes and watch his muscles tighten and spasm as he says her name, and repeats after me.

_Katniss is not a mutt._

_Katniss did not destroy District 12._

_I love Katniss._

Sometimes saying the last one hurts for me to say, but I see the pain flash through Peeta's eyes as he repeats it aloud without question, and I don't feel so bad.

For the first while, he couldn't even say it. Instead, at the mention of her name he'd thrash and scream and yell, and I'd cry into the corner as they doctors sedated him. After about a week, he progressed, and her name could be mentioned, but the same dangerous spark would go off in his eyes and every muscle in his body would tighten. Then, slowly, he grew accustomed to the name, and his reactions weren't so harsh. The day I finally got him to speak it aloud, I could have cried with happiness. He stared blankly into my eyes and said, "I loved Katniss", and even that hurt him. He had to be sedated after that.

But then he grew accustomed to saying it as well, to tasting the sound of her name on his tongue, and forming the word with his lips. _Katniss_. I'd never known a single word to be so wholly painful to a person.

Now he repeats after me, but his eyes go hollow and his voice low, and sometimes it comes out no louder than a whisper.

_I love Katniss._

He doesn't like to talk of her much other than that, so instead that subject hangs heavily in the air as we sit in our silence and Peeta paints.

I expect the same today.

I step off the elevator, slowly sliding my way past the others, and walk quickly towards the hospital.

I greet Laverne at the door, the old woman who hugged me the first time I met with Peeta. She's now become a sort of friend of mine and greets me in the morning with a smile, offering her comforting arms after a particularly long and stressful day with Peeta.

I've learned a lot about her in the weeks that have passed.

She escaped from 9 on a whim. The man she loved said he thought there was something more out there, something worth living for. He was in trouble with the Capitol, and knew that if he stayed, he'd be killed.

They decided to run away together, to go to another District or even live in the woods. They wanted to escape so they could be together, and so they did.

They lived in the woods for weeks, and Laverne's lover died of sickness 3 days before she found 13. They were only 3 miles away from the underground.

But all of this aside, she still smiles the brightest smile I've seen while underground.

She says the same about me.

This morning she greets me with a smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder, and I'm grateful.

It's almost the only human contact I have down here.

It's warm.

It's comforting.

It makes it just a little easier to call this place my new home.

I walk down the brightly lit hallway towards Peeta's room, and stop at the door. There's someone else in there, a number of people. I hear the low, gruff voices mumble behind the door, and hear loud thumps.

What are they doing?

Nervous, I push open the door to find 6 fully armed soldiers –guards down here I guess- setting up a table and various containers in Peeta's room. Peeta sits in the corner, free from restraints, crouched in a chair watching them cautiously.

His blue eyes catch mine and I instinctively rush over to his side.

"Morning," I offer as I squat down beside his chair.

"Do you smell that?" he asks quickly, disregarding my greeting.

I'm shocked; his tone is almost excited, anxious.

"No. I…. smell what?"

Peeta places a hand to his noise, tapping it as he closes his eyes and inhales deeply. A broad smile spreads across his face, stretching his cheeks, "Ahh. Smell it?"

I can't help but laugh –he looks like a right fool- but I follow his lead and take a deep breath through my noise, and the soft smell hits it, going straight to my head.

It almost smells like the bakery back home.

I turn to Peeta, my eyes wide and he smiles at me knowingly, "I'd recognize that anywhere," he whispers, his eyes shining.

We sit there watching the guards set up the table and empty the containers, and sure enough- baking supplies. I watch, incredulous, as they wheel a cake in from a separate entrance, a huge four-tiered stack that seems to tower over us all.

It's just another blank canvas for Peeta.

And then Haymitch walks into the room.

His heavy footfalls fill the room as we all fall silent, nervous. Peeta practically grips at the sides of his chair watching his mentor cross the room.

They met a few days ago, I know. Peeta told me about it.

Haymitch had come in, as he had done so before, but this time was different. This time Peeta spoke clearly, spoke loudly, and this time he made sense. He berated Haymitch for leaving him out of the loop, and got angry and mad, but he didn't lose it. He controlled himself. He acted sane.

Haymitch left abruptly after that, and hasn't been back to see Peeta since.

But I heard from Plutarch that this confirmed his suspicions of Peeta's condition. It established Peeta's progress, and for that I am glad. But Haymitch's presence scares me now, particularly looking at Peeta's white knuckles, clutching to the arms of his chair.

I place a hand over his and rub my thumb over the back of his hand, a signal for him to calm down. A signal we've shared since we were young.

It works. Peeta's muscles slowly loosen beneath my fingertips, but his eyes are still stony, watching Haymitch carefully.

"Hey there boy," Haymitch says quietly as he crosses towards Peeta.

"Come to apologize?" Peeta's voice is harsh and brusque, he's almost growling.

"Well, yes. And to bring a gift of sorts."

"A gift?"

"Yes. Of sorts."

"I don't follow."

Haymitch rolls his eyes and points to the cake, "see that? That's for you. That is your project for the next few days. It's Finnick and Annie's wedding cake. _That_ is your gift."

Peeta snorts, "Well gee, thanks but if it's for the wedding you sure you want me to eat it all now?"

He smiles up at Haymitch, tauntingly, sarcastically. It's a poor joke, but Peeta seams pleased with his sardonic tone. No one else is.

"Good one," Haymitch deadpans. "Ha, ha, ha. I'm dying of laughter. Just ice it up nicely. Make it look real pretty if you can. Make it, District 4-esque…"

Peeta's eyes meet Haymitch's, and his gaze is steady as he says softly "I'll do my best... Haymitch."

Haymitch nods, and starts walking back towards the door, but stops halfway out of the room. "Peeta," he turns and his eyes train on the floor, "How are you?"

"I'm good," he replies, and Haymitch begins to walk out of the room but Peeta raises his voice one more, "Hey Haymitch?"

"Yeah?"

"How're you?"

His furry, unshaven face breaks into a sly grin as Haymitch turns around to Peeta.

"I'm good kid, thanks for asking."

And that's that.

For the rest of the day, I sit and watch Peeta work on his cake.

It's as though he's in a trance.

The way he blends the colours, so meticulous and cautious, as though just one shade darker blue or one shade lighter brown would destroy the entire piece. He mixes the colours into the frosting, slowly and steadily gently folding it over and over until the entire bowl is a consistent vibrant colour. It's incredible the detail he puts into each cresting wave, each beautiful frosted flower, each seal, fish and sailboat.

Peeta truly creates a work of art, and I'm hypnotized

I return the next day, to watch him again; I can't get enough.

Haymitch comes too, no doubt to keep an eye on Peeta's progress, and he seems pleased as he pulls up his chair tight next to mine.

"So how're you doing kiddo?" He whispers, his low voice gruff in the early morning.

"I'm good I guess," I smile at him, "each day I'm more and more used to it."

"It?"

"The underground. The people. Peeta… Life."

"Huh, right." Haymitch nods solemnly to himself and smacks his lips.

"You know," he begins, "I hear you come down here everyday. To see him."

"Yeah, so?"

"You don't have to do that kiddo."

"Stop calling me kiddo please."

"Fine. Delly, you don't have to come down here everyday."

I pause for a moment, pulling my knees up tight to my chest and resting my chin on them, my eyes never leaving Peeta's careful fingers. "And why not?"

"Look, sweetheart, I know we're working hard to get Peeta's life back, and I know you're part of that but… you need to get your own life down here too. How're you supposed to do that while you're locked up with a…" Haymitch seems to search for the words, "slightly psychotic and delusional mental patient."

"Well you certainly don't sugarcoat anything."

"Oh sweetheart, I was trying," Haymitch shifts in his seat and puts his hand on my shoulder.

I shy away instinctively, the muscles in my shoulder tightening involuntarily. His hand feels rough and large, far too heavy on my skin. It's uncomfortable, I don't like it. I avoid facing him and instead turn my head away, training my eyes on a speck of dirt on the floor.

Feeling my discomfort, Haymitch retracts his hand and simply shrugs, "Look, you don't need to be here now."

_Dirt, underground. How novel. How incredibly satisfying it is, seeing just one speck of dirt in an otherwise spotless place. _

"This cake will occupy him up until the wedding."

_Makes it seem almost human. Almost real._

"Go out, and get some fresh air," he urges.

Fresh air in the underground -now that's funny.

I let out a quiet laugh and Haymitch's voice grows softer as he places his hand over mine, gentler this time. "Look, sweetheart. It's time to go. I think," he pauses, and I lift my eyes to meet his, "I think your brother misses you."

My chest feels tight as my hand shoots right to my mouth.

Colin.

In all my time spent being with Peeta, I didn't have time to go visit my brother, to remind him that I'm here; to hold onto the one piece of home that really made it out alive.

I feel so guilty.

Haymitch's eyes soften –he clearly senses my reaction- and nods, a silent gesture that I can go.

I've never run so fast in my life.

I race out of the room and slow down when I hit the slippery marble tiles that cover the Hospital floor. My shoes have little traction, and so I almost slip and fall into a wall as I move.

"Nice one chubs," a grim, sarcastic voice calls, "try not to hit your head too hard."

I stop in my tracks and turn to face my intimidator.

It's none other than Johanna Mason, lying on a cot, watching me.

I muster up my most confident voice and nod, stepping towards her. "Johanna."

"Ooh, not such a scaredy-cat are we?" she taunts, her lips pulling up in a wide, sarcastic, toothy grin as she winks at me.  
To say that I am scared of Johanna Mason is a vast understatement.

She absolutely terrifies me.

It's not so much the way she looks–which has certainly deteriorated since I first saw her compete in The Hunger Games- but the way she looks _at_ me. Her eyes are hard and yet have this dangerous glint to them; a constant companion to a playfully vicious expression. And the way she talks, her voice low and snide, hitting every _s_ with a vicious hiss that makes me wince, and always scrunching her nose and her eyebrows, as though she's smelt something horrible.

Johanna Mason gives me the creeps.

I have nothing to reply, nothing witty or smart enough at least, and so I turn and am about to walk away when I hear her voice again.

But it's different this time.

She sounds more sincere, more curious.

"Delly, wait," she calls.

I didn't even know she knew my name. Incredulous, I turn back, "Yes?"

Her gaze is sad, almost concerned as she whispers softly across the room, "How is he?"

_He._

Peeta.

Of course, they were both tortured together back in the Capitol. Is it possible? Could Johanna Mason care about someone else? The thought scares me, and I immediately feel sorry for Johanna, it's not like she has anyone who really cares about her, except maybe Peeta. But really, Peeta cares about everyone.

"He's been better," I offer. "But he's also been worse."

She nods solemnly at my answer, turning her head back to her lap. I turn to leave but her voice carries over to my ears once again, this time wavering slightly, as though she might lose it.

It frightens me.

"You know," her eyes meet mine again, and this time they look sad. "We were beside each other in the Capitol. There were these walls in between our cells and though it was dark, it felt better knowing that he was there. They started pulling him out, taking him off to another room for hours a day. Hours of absolute silence for about a week. They left me alone then; they weren't too concerned with me at first. But when they brought him back each day, he looked fine on the outside. Not a single scratch, no visible bruises or blood. Nothing. I think that's what scared me the most, because even though you couldn't see the pain, you knew he was terrified. He was always so pale, and he shook so violently I thought he might be having a seizure. He wouldn't speak, not while he was awake anyways. He'd just sit there in the corner, staring at the walls. But then when he slept, he… he'd speak. He'd scream. So loudly I swear he woke up the entire Capitol. At first, he'd speak about Katniss. It sounded like he was trying to protect her, calling out to her. Almost as though he was watching her in pain, watching her die. Then eventually, he began calling her a mutt and blaming her and sounding like he was running from her. After the first time he spoke like that, I woke him up and got him to write down everything he knew about Katniss. Everything he loved. Everyday, when they brought him back pale and shaking, I'd hand him that piece of paper, and he'd read it. But after a week, I started to hear screams coming from the room where they were keeping him, much louder than the ones he gave at night, and then when they brought him back and I gave him the paper, he ripped it up and threw it out of his cell."

Johanna's expression hardens as her eyes focus on mine, "Delly, he was gone then. He's gone now…"

"No, no he's not Johanna. Not yet."

"Delly, _give up_. Nobody comes out of that arena the same. Nobody comes out of the Capitol the same, you hear me? Nobody. The Peeta you knew is gone. Don't bother trying to bring him back."

I ball my hands into fists and can't help it, I scream at her, "Then what am I supposed to do then!"

Johanna smirks at me; "You get squeaky when you're mad. It's amusing."

"Johanna!"

She takes a long pause before replying, "Get to know the new Peeta. Once you understand who he is now, you'll know what he needs," she lies back on her hospital bed and grabs the morphling drip from the bed beside her, jamming it into her arm.

As soon as the drug enters her blood stream she relaxes, arching her head back and letting out a deep sigh.

"Don't bother changing him Delly, just fix him," she mutters softly before closing her eyes.

I turn around and race out of the hospital.

I spend the rest of the day with Colin, asking him questions and holding him tight in my arms, willing for everything else to go away and leave us here together in peace and quiet.

He tells me about the friends he's made, what he's learning in school. He's too young to be a soldier, so he spends all his time learning, and then playing with others his age. He's adjusting, surviving; thriving even. I'm so proud. For someone so small, he's so strong.

He's stronger than me.

He's even stopped referring to District 13 as 'here' and the people as 'them'. He's fitting in, finding his place.

We sit together for a couple of hours and he sits in my lap, my arms resting on his shoulders as we speak, back and forth. He doesn't ask much about what I'm doing, and I'm grateful for it. I don't think I'd want to talk about Peeta much, especially to Colin. How could I possibly explain to him all that's happened, and still happening? He's my little brother. He's too young, too innocent.

But really, he doesn't seem so little anymore.

At least, not until I have to leave, and he looks up at me, watching with his eyes wide and sad, scared and afraid; everything I never want to see in his eyes all at once.

He looks like a little kid again. He looks like my little brother. He looks broken and fragile. He looks afraid.

"Delly?" he whispers, reaching up for my arms again.

I pick him up, holding him tight in my arms and taking a deep breath as I do, "Yeah Colin?"

"Will we ever go home?" he whispers into my shoulder.

I squeeze him one last time and place him back down on the floor in front of me, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead, "I don't know bud."

I turn and walk down the hallway before he can see my tears.


End file.
